


your throne

by Hugabug



Category: Heneral Luna (2015)
Genre: M/M, i have no fucking words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 00:59:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6352549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hugabug/pseuds/Hugabug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pole's eyes wander, sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your throne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChucklesTheMime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChucklesTheMime/gifts).



Pole’s eyes wander, sometimes, when the sun is high and the wind is humid and the heat beats down, making his chest palpitate in a way he can never fully fathom. Half-lidded, they follow the almost invisible trail of sweat that parts from the nape of his lover’s neck and disappears down his collar. He imagines it trickling, passing the gentle slope of his back, halting for a moment at the dimples that pepper his shoulders, collecting there before continuing, slipping into the groove that lines his spine.

Then, he thinks of stopping, just on the waist band of his trousers, soaking into the fabric. His lover squirms, distracted by the warmth of the harsh summer sun, and Pole watches as darkened cloth peeks at him from beneath layers of clothing. The wet patch has gotten bigger. Big enough to make the trousers sticky, clingy and scrunched up just around the gentle swell of his buttocks.

Outside, the clattering of _kalesa_ hooves makes them both jump and his lover drops papers.

When he bends down to get them, Pole imagines his strong torso sprawled across the table, pebbly nipples grazing cool mahogany, trousers pooled around his ankles, ass shivering as sweltering air dries its damp cheeks. How calves would shake in anticipation, how arms must stretch to reach around, calloused fingers coated with both spit and oil, gently prodding a tight hole for entrance.

A pity, Pole wouldn’t get to see his face, all flushed and red and pretty, eyes screwed shut, mouth falling open in pleasure. There would be begging-- he was always so vocal-- an adams apple bobbing up and down at the scrap of the words that leave (”P-Pole, _ungh_ , sige na, gagawin ko na ang lahat para sa ‘yo, ipa-- _ngh_ \--!”), raspy and rough, from a dry throat.

Fingers would move, in and out, first one, and then two. His back would arch, little gasps accenting pleasure, and sweat would begin anew, a musky smell filling their nostrils, making Pole’s mouth water, his tongue twitch.

What would he taste like, he wondered, sat on his lap, heat wrapped around Pole’s leaking member. His thighs would quiver under the strain, hips bouncing up and down like a tight rubber ball, and his head would be thrown back, resting against Pole’s shoulder, neck bared for teeth to sink into.

Fingerprint bruises on tanned skin, Pole’s thin hands wrapped around his thick shaft, slit spitting out pearls of pre-cum, toes curling, knuckles white, hands shaking--

What a good boy he would be, his little Miong.

“Pole?” a voice broke through his reverie. “May problema ba? Kanina ka pa tingin ng tingin.”

Pole bit his bottom lip, smiled. Reached out a hand.

Miong took it, palm warm, grip unsure but trusting.

(Oh, what a good, _pliant_ , boy, indeed.)

“Senyor Presidente.” Pole cooed, intertwining their fingers and guiding him toward the edge of his desk.

“Come, sit on your throne.”


End file.
